


“i dreamt about you last night.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [7]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: (I headcanon George as asexual but I had this prompt sorted for the boys and I had to write this), Crush, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Obliviousness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 04:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: George Mukherjee is having weird dreams. Although they’re the sort the boys in his dorm boast about having, it would be suicide for George to boast about his dreams. He’s having dreams, sure and they’re weird enough.They’re just about the wrong person.Canon EraWritten for the seventh prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	“i dreamt about you last night.”

It’s getting fearfully hard to pretend that nothing is wrong. It would be easy to fake a smile if it were anybody but Alex.

You see, that’s the problem. Alex is  _ kind _ . He is a noticing sort of person and he seems to notice me most of all.

“George,” he asks me at breakfast the night after it first happens, “are you all right?”

_ No!  _ I want to yell.  _ I just had a vivid dream about snogging and you’re my best friend and we are both men and it’s the 1940s, how could I possibly be all right?  _

That is an exceptionally bad idea. Instead, I nod and say, “I’ll perfectly all right. I slept badly, is all.”

Alex gives me an odd look, but then Bob asks him to pass the salt and he does, and the conversation is forgotten.

* * *

The second time it happens, I nearly concuss myself. I think that is why Alexander starts to get concerned.

It’s the same day as the first but I can’t shake the feeling of dream-Alex pulling me close and kissing me.

I know it was only a dream. 

That doesn’t stop me from accidentally slamming my head into the underside of my desk while fetching a dropped fountain pen during history. All because Alex says something that was almost an exact quote from my dream. 

“George, what is  _ up _ with you today?” he asks, and Inigo Bly glares at him.

“Cowboy, quiet!” And you, get up and shut up.”

After ‘you’, he says something. A wicked and evil word. He is a prefect who takes us for prep and I do not like him one bit. He calls me words I don’t dare repeat, even though I have clearance to use them as an Indian. “Oh, go and fuck yourself,” I say.

“MUKHERJEE. TO TWINING’S OFFICE NOW.”

I am worried about the fact that I did that. Perhaps Alex will this I overreacted. But I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn to see Alex grinning at me. “That was wicked, George! But really, are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly alright.” It’s not a lie. With his hand on my shoulder, I am.

* * *

The third time it happens, I am mercifully woken up before my mind can drag me to a hole I can’t climb out of. Once anything passes below the belt, it is no longer boyish curiosity.

It’s roughly three in the morning and I’m leaning over the sink in the bathroom and soaking my face with freezing water to attempt to shock some sense back into myself.

_ Alex is your best friend. _

_ Alex is in love with Hazel. _

_ Alex is most definitely not a homosexual. _

_ You would be sent to jail. _

_ Your career would be ruined. _

_ Your dad’s career would be ruined. _

_ The girls would hate you. _

_ You would be putting Harold in danger. _

The most frustrating thing is that none of those things seem to  _ matter  _ to me.

They don’t  _ matter  _ simply because Alexander is handsome and charismatic and charming and I like him and I  _ want  _ him. 

It doesn’t help that I can’t shake the mental image of dream-Alex’s hands on my shirt buttons. I should be thankful that I woke up in a cold sweat before dream-Alex could do more than reach for my belt.

“Bastard,” I hiss.

“Usually I have to say something before you start spouting insults.”

_ Damn him _ .

“Oh. Hello, Alex.”

“George, seriously?” He sounds surprised, which makes me scoff.

“Who else in this school is  _ Indian _ ? Obviously it’s me, you halfwit.” I sigh. I don’t want to insult him. Only… it’s natural at this point. It’s strange if I don’t.

Alex likes strange things, though. And the situation is strange enough anyway. Perhaps he won’t mind.

“Alright, I get it, you hate me.”

“Alex… are you all right? What are you doing up at this hour?”

With a scowl, he crosses his arms over his front, short sleeves hitched up even more. “Nothing.”

He does seem slightly shocked.

My own plight still not forgotten, I turn and face him properly. “Come on, Alex. I’m an ass most of the time but I care about you. What is it?”

“I had a weird dream. That’s it.”

Anybody with half of a brain in his school knows that a ‘weird’ dream is code for ‘I dreamt about a girl and it swiftly went south’.

Replace girl with boy and I guess I had a weird dream too.

“Hazel?” Wouldn’t that just be fucking  _ perfect _ ? The golden-haired and emotional romantic of an American boy snogging the dark-haired and round-faced emotional romantic of a Chinese girl. 

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Rolling my eyes, I punch his shoulder. “You’re so prude, Alex. Get some sleep or we’ll hate ourselves tomorrow.”

With a soft smile in my direction, he nods and heads towards his bed.

I feel myself melt. 

* * *

The following morning, I am absolutely exhausted and I remember the conversation from last night (earlier that day, I suppose) with perfect clarity.

Alexander looks half-dead and can’t seem to figure out why.

“I slept perfectly well!” he says in confusion to Bob, who laughs.

Slicking gel through my hair, I smirk and think,  _ No, you didn’t. _

I don’t say it. Obviously.

“George,” he calls. “Did you sleep well?”

Did I sleep well? I was awake at the witching hour, of course not. We’re my dreams good? Better than ever. I shiver at the thought. Should I have enjoyed my dreams? I would be eaten alive by the others students if they knew, of course not. Did I enjoy my dreams? Absolutely.

“Yes,” I reply with a smile. “I slept just fine. 

* * *

At breakfast, Alex says, “I dreamt about you last night.”

I chuckle. “Pass the margarine,” Bob says, and I do.

“You did? What did we do, solve a mur—” Then I realise.

Alex, typically forgetful, doesn’t  _ remember  _ waking up at the witching hour and telling me the nature of his dream.

I do.

That was about  _ me. _

“You dreamt about me?!” My voice leaps an octave.

“Yes?”

I sigh. “Sorry, I misheard you the first time and then realised what you said.”

It’s a shitty excuse.

In prep, Alex’s looks towards me are more concerned than at breakfast.

All my work is finished, so I slip a plain piece of paper underneath the half-finished history essay I use for covers, and I adjust them so that the top of the plain paper is visible.

I need advice.

_ Dear Daisy Wells... _


End file.
